


Comment!fic

by frogy



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-21
Updated: 2010-10-21
Packaged: 2017-10-12 21:29:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frogy/pseuds/frogy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"how much better can my life get? / 900 cubic centimeters of raw whining power. / no outstanding warrants for my arrest." (Jenny by The Mountain Goats)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comment!fic

Nate drops his bags on Brad's front porch and goes for third flower-less flowerpot which he knows is hiding the spare key. The movement is so automatic that he's halfway through it before remembering that he has a key now. He stands up like it's a chore, picking up his bags again to rustle through them for the keys. The sun is setting, and Nate can't deny the beauty of a California sunset, sky lit up pink and orange and gold. But getting in early enough to see it means he lost a long day sitting on a plane, and all he wants is to climb into bed with Brad not to sleep and to maybe order a pizza.

Keys dug up from the bottom of his bag, Nate lets himself into Brad's house, and calls out "Hey, I'm here."

Nate doesn't get an answer. He drops his bag, inside this time, closing the door behind him, and walking further into the house. He peers into the kitchen, backyard, office, and still no Brad. There's a door at the end of the hall that's open, and Nate knows it's the garage, even though he's never been out there.

That's where Brad is. He's kneeling next to his motorcycle wrench in hand, paused in whatever he was doing to watch Nate come in.

"Hey," Nate says.

"Sir," Brad says, and Nate knows it's a question even though there's nothing questioning in the inflection. Nate's finally got Brad to call him 'Nate' most of the time. The 'Sir's are reserved for when can't figure something out.

"I got on an earlier flight on stand-by," Nate explains. Brad doesn't say anything, just continues to sit there, looking at Nate. Nate looks back, until he can't, and glances over at the motorcycle instead. "So," he breaks the silence. "That's your bike."

"Your powers of observation astound me."

Nate smirks at Brad's quip. "It's nice."

"She," Brad says.

"What?" Nate asks.

"Madeline's a she. Not an it."

"I didn't realize inanimate objects had genders," Nate says, raising an eyebrow.

Brad puts down the wrench he's holding and runs his hands along the seat of his bike. "Don't mind him, Maddy," he murmurs gently to the bike, pressing his lips to the leather in a kiss.

"Hey," Nate says, putting his hands on his hips. He flew all the way to California, and now a bike is stealing his kisses. "Don't I get one of those?"

"I don't see how your feelings need to be soothed, Madeline didn't insult you," Brad says, but he's smiling as he says it, and pushing himself up to stand.

"Sorry Madeline," Nate says, walking towards Brad and the bike, so that he can meet Brad halfway when Brad leans forward, hands still resting on Madeline's seat to kiss Nate over the bike.

Brad's mouth is a reminder of why Nate splits his life between two coasts, puts up with the hassle of poorly timed flights and the annoyance of travel, warm and familiar with the perfect amount of pressure. When the kiss ends, they stay close, leaning into each others' space, and Brad finally says "Welcome home."


End file.
